


I Will Always Fight To Come Home

by BluellaBlair



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Demisexual Keith (Voltron), I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Lance (Voltron), One-Sided Allura/Lance (Voltron), Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-02-23 14:27:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23946307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BluellaBlair/pseuds/BluellaBlair
Summary: Keith had a set of truths. They were a list of three:1.) The time somebody would remain gray before theydied was random; there was no set time period.2.) There was no specific way somebody would die once they turned gray; there were infinite possibilities.3.) As much as he may want to, or as much as he may try to intervene, once somebody turned gray, there was no way to change, or prevent that person's death; Keith was in no position to change fate.Those were his truths, and he stuck by them.And then he met Lance.
Relationships: Allura/Lance (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	I Will Always Fight To Come Home

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is my first fic, so it might be a bit rough around the edges, but stick with me; let's hope I'll improve! 
> 
> Also, I'm writing this fic for two -- no, wait -- three reasons:
> 
> 1.) I wanted to, duh!  
> 2.) At this point in time, I'm stuck in quarantine, so why not?  
> 3.) My best friend is a huge fan of Voltron: Legendary Defender, and was a little (strongly) disappointed by the ending. Not saying it was bad, but there could have been some changes, IMO. Anyways, bestest friend in the whole world (and others who will give this fic the light of day), I hope this cures your end-of-Voltron inspired depression, even if it is a little late in the making. 
> 
> *I should also add that I'm not a Voltron know-it-all (that's the Bff's department) so this fic is going to veer a little ways away from canon, but hopefully it will still be an enjoyable read, nevertheless.  
> *The formatting sucks; I know. I don't know why it looks like that, but oh well. Let me know if it looks weird to you, too. 
> 
> With that said, I'll stop wasting your time and let you get to the story.

When Keith was five, he had noticed that his orange, pet tabby cat, Sophia, had turned gray. 

“Dad, what happened to Sophia?” he had asked one day after school, both of them standing at the kitchen counter with glasses of ice tea. Keith had to reach up on his tippy toes to grab the cold glass. 

“What do you mean?” 

Keith pointed at the cat lounging on the couch, and his dad turned around to look. Sophia was lazily sprawled on the old piece of furniture, tail flicking back and forth. Keith saw his dad’s thick brows furrow -- an expression that Keith was fairly familiar with -- and flicked his eyes back to his son. “I don’t understand, what’s wrong with her?” 

Keith shrugged, and brought his ice tea to his lips with both of his little hands. It was unsweetened, which Keith knew his classmates thought was gross, but that was how his dad always drank it, and Keith was always trying to be like his dad. Keith swallowed. “She’s gray.” 

_“Gray?”_

Keith nodded. “Can’t you tell?” Keith was starting to get confused, and a slight weight seemed to settle in his stomach. His dad watched him with calculating eyes, slightly narrowed, and Keith tried not to squirm. Keith’s dad had an “unnerving” stare, according to their neighbor, Mr. Barone. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he knew what it made him feel when he was subjected to the steely gaze.   
“Guess not,” his dad muttered, bringing his tea to his mouth. 

The slight weight was still settling in Keith’s gut, but he decided that he didn’t really care all too much. So, instead, he finished his glass of tea, then went outside to play with the other children on his block. Soon enough, Keith forgot about it, and didn’t bring it up to his father again.

Two weeks later, Sophia died; heart failure, his dad explained while Keith cried. Keith kept the little bell that was attached to Sophia’s collar on his bedside table.

When Keith was eight, he was riding his bike on a hot, mid-July evening, and, while passing a small shop on his way home, he had noticed something in the display window that instantly caught his eye. Immediately, he had his heart set on the coolest model fighter jet he’d ever seen. It looked exactly like a miniature MiG-21. He had come to his father that night, who was resting on the old recliner after a long day at work, with pleading eyes and words, begging for that jet more than he had ever begged for anything in his life. 

His father was not having it, much to Keith’s dislike. 

“I’m sorry, Keith, but we don’t have the money to afford those kinds of things at the moment.” Keith knew his father, had known him his whole life, and he could tell when his father was being genuine. He saw the shame in his father’s expression when he said they couldn’t afford it, the way his eyes couldn’t entirely meet Keith’s tearful gaze. He registered what it cost his dad to say that, and while Keith very much wanted to throw a tantrum, he couldn’t find it in his heart to do it. 

That didn’t stop the overwhelming sense of disappointment from washing over him, though, and Keith, not trusting his voice, simply nodded and turned away, dejectedly walking back to his room, trying not to let the tears stream down his cheeks. 

His dad must have seen Keith’s young heart break, because before Keith reached his door, his father added, “You could work for the money”. 

Keith, interest piqued, turned back around to face him. “How?” 

Long story short, that was how Keith started his summer lawn-mowing business, and he absolutely hated it. 

Keith was naturally pale-skinned, no matter the season, and the burning sun was not kind on the boy. Considering that, and the fact that he was lugging an old, junky lawn mower around town made it onto Keith’s top ten least favorite things’ list, right below helping his dad fix the garbage disposal and above chunky milk in cereal. 

Keith really wanted that MiG-21. 

It wasn’t all bad though, Keith would admit. He was steadily (although slowly) making money, and he felt a sense of accomplishment because of that. There was also Mrs. Deacon, a motherly old woman who always thanked Keith for his hard work with a generous twenty dollar bill, much more than what his other customers paid him. 

“Oh, honey, you’re burnt to a crisp!” 

Keith shrugged, not sure how to respond to the woman’s words. “It’s hot outside,” he replied lamely. 

Mrs. Deacon nodded sympathetically, then, after a moment, opened her front door wider, and a wrinkly hand motioned him inside. “Come on in, I have some aloe vera we can put on that sunburn.” 

Keith, feeling awkward, stammered, “Oh, um, there’s no need for that, Mrs. Deacon, I’m perfectly fine.” 

“Nonsense. I can’t have you going around in pain like that. It just wouldn’t be right.” With a gentle tugging on his elbow, Keith begrudgingly let the older women pull him inside. “I’ll get you something nice and cold to drink, too.” 

After that, it became a common occurrence for Keith to pay Mrs. Deacon a visit after his mowing was done, and each time, a cold drink was pushed into his hand. Mrs. Deacon had soon learned of Keith’s preference for unsweetened tea, which earned him a “strange, strange boy”. She had even started making tea biscuits for Keith, who had quickly discovered that Mrs. Deacon's tea biscuits were unfathomably delicious. Mrs. Deacon even made extra for him to take home. 

If Keith’s father found it odd that Keith was spending time with Mrs. Deacon, he didn’t comment on it. Keith suspected that his dad liked the biscuits a lot as well. 

Even after Keith had accumulated enough money for the fighter jet, and subsequently retired, he still found himself visiting Mrs. Deacon every week; he found she was a very easy person to talk to, which was a rare find for Keith. 

On a September Saturday, about two months after Keith had first started his mowing gig, Keith had walked to Mrs. Deacon's house for their regular tea and biscuits visit, and when Mrs. Deacon opened the door with a warm smile, Keith’s stomach dropped. 

Mrs. Deacon was gray. A faded gray, like an old photograph. Her floral blouse stood out brightly against the muted color of her skin. 

Keith was unusually quiet that visit. 

A month later, Keith’s dad knocked on his bedroom door, a solemn expression on his face. 

Keith had a feeling he already knew. 

His dad had gotten a call. Mrs. Deacon died that morning. Heart failure. 

Keith still craved her tea biscuits every once in a while.

Keith was thirteen when Mr. Barone, their neighbor, died. Keith wasn’t close to him, and neither was Keith’s father, but he had felt sick when Keith had looked out his window the morning prior and saw Mr. Barone scraping snow off his driveway, his yellow-knit cap sunny against his gray head.

By the time Keith had reached his sixteenth birthday, he had thought he had it figured out. 

When Mrs. Deacon died, he had originally connected it to Sophia’s death, since both of them died from heart failure. It seemed like a solid conclusion. 

With that in mind, when Mr. Barone died, Keith had initially assumed he had also died for the same reason. 

He had found out he was wrong the next weekend, when Keith and his father were at the grocery store, and had bumped into Mrs. Barone and her daughter, Cheryl. 

Keith had wished they could’ve ignored them; he wasn’t very fond of small talk. He knew his dad was also probably thinking the same thing, but, unlike Keith, he was skilled in the art of “faking it”, whatever “it” was. 

Apparently, in this case, “it” was chatting to their late neighbor’s widowed wife and fatherless teenager and not looking too awkward and drained by the conversation. 

They exchanged pleasantries, and his father gave his condolences. “He was a good man,” his father said. Keith’s only real memory of Mr. Barone was when the man had said his father had an unnerving stare (Keith would agree). 

For the most part, Keith wasn’t paying attention, instead choosing to pretend to inspect their grocery list gripped in his hand. There were only two things on the list: water and eggs. 

Keith read them over and over. 

However, despite his act, Keith must have been slightly following the conversation, because his ears instantly picked up Mrs. Barone’s words: “Honestly, I’m not sure if Cheryl and I are going to be able to live there anymore. It was such a nasty fall. It keeps replaying over and over in my head anytime I go down to the basement.”

Keith’s head snapped up, and before he realized what he was doing he asked, “Mr. Barone fell down the stairs?” 

The three of them turned their heads towards Keith, his father turning to him with a look on his face that made Keith shrink in on himself slightly. “Yes,” Mrs. Barone replied, curtly. Keith noticed that Cheryl was trying not to cry in the store. Keith felt sorry for her. “A nail from the floor boards had come loose, and his shoelace got caught on the edge of it. He broke his neck.” 

Keith nodded in understanding, but his thoughts were in a whirlwind of confusion. Keith felt the need to ask, to find answers, but not sure how to sensitively breach the subject. With a tentative glance towards his father, Keith continued. “Was there anything else wrong with him?” Mrs. Barone and Cheryl looked at him blankly, and Keith winced. “I mean, like, did he have any health conditions? Like problems with his heart?” Keith knew he was coming off weird, knew that his father was glaring holes into the side of his head, but he needed to know. 

“No,” Mrs. Barone replied softly, her jaw quivering, “He was a healthy man.” With a quick nod and goodbye to Keith’s father, Mrs. Barone maneuvered Cheryl and herself in the opposite direction, hunched over their shopping cart as they briskly walked away. 

“What was that about?” His father asked when Mrs. Barone and Cheryl were a safe distance away. 

Keith ducked his head down again, letting his dark bangs fall in front of his eyes. “Nothing,” he muttered, “what happened--that’s awful.” 

“It is,” his dad agreed. 

That day, Keith had come to the second truth: there was no specific way somebody would die once they turned gray. Sophia and Mrs. Deacon's deaths were coincidences. 

The first truth he had figured out a long time ago: the time somebody would remain gray before they died was random. Keith wasn’t sure why that was the case, but he knew that at the least. 

It was two things, two facts that he could confidently tell himself. It was like the grocery list. Two items, two truths, that he repeated over and over in his head. 

And even though he knew this, came to terms with it, nothing would have prepared him, at fifthteen years old, about two years after the Barone incident at the grocery store, when his dad came home one night, gray and dull and soon to be dead. 

Keith had freaked out. Asked him what’s wrong? Was he feeling well? What happened? His dad’s puzzled gaze only seemed to terrify him more. 

That night Keith hadn’t slept, getting up multiple times to check on his dad, who was asleep on the recliner in the living room. Each time he heard his father’s snores, and a temporary relief would wash over him, quickly to be replaced with a painful stab of fear that shook his core and resonated in his bones. 

The next morning he begged his dad to go to the emergency room. His father had looked up from his paper, brows furrowed. “Why?” 

Keith balled his hands into fists, nails biting into palms. “Please.” 

“Why?” His father repeated, sterner. “Is something wrong? Are you not feeling well?” 

“No, it’s not--” Keith let out a frustrated breath, and set his hands on the kitchen table with a hard _smack_. His dad’s eyes widened slightly. “You _need_ to go to the hospital. You _have_ to. There’s something wrong and I don’t know what else there is to do.” Keith was aware of how desperate he sounded; he wasn’t sure how to mask it. 

“What do you mean there’s something _wrong_? Keith, you’re not making any sense--” 

_“Please,”_ Keith begged again, and Keith’s father must have noticed that Keith was on the verge of hyperventilating, because he set his paper down and got up, making his way over to his panicked son. 

“Keith,” he rested a firm hand on Keith’s shoulder, and Keith flinched, his hand cold to the touch, like the warmth drained away with the color. “I don’t know what’s going on, so, please, talk to me. I know we've never been good at that, but I need you to _talk_ to me.” 

His father’s stare was as unnerving as ever, but they were unchanged. Unlike the rest of his body, his dad’s eyes had always been gray. Keith found a small amount of comfort in that. 

Keith told him everything. Every detail of every incident that had ever occurred, and by the end of it, he was out of breath. His vision started to black out, and vaguely he felt his dad’s firm hand push him into a chair. “Slow, deep breaths, Keith. Breathe with me. In. . . out. In. . . out. That’s it. Keep going. In. . . out. In. . . out. . .” 

They stayed like that for a few minutes, Keith in the chair, laboring his breaths, and his father kneeling in front of him, a hand on his shoulder. Finally, when Keith’s vision and mind cleared, he looked back up at his dad. His dad’s face was unreadable. “You think I’m crazy.” It wasn’t a question; Keith already knew the answer. 

His father sighed. "No, I don't, but I'm not sure what to say." His hand drew back from Keith, and Keith couldn't deny he was relieved that the icy cold of his palm went away with his father's touch. 

He felt like a ghost, looked like one, but his voice was alive, so Keith tried to focus only on that. "Will you?" Keith didn't bother elaborating. 

Another sigh escaped the older man. "Keith--" 

"No," Keith stood up, forcing his dad to lift his chin to look at him. "No." 

"I can't just skip work, Keith." 

"You can. Just say you're sick." 

His dad's eyes narrowed. "We need the money, Keith. Not to mention that we can't just afford any unnecessary bills from a spontaneous trip to the hospital." His father got up from his kneeling position on the floor, a small grunt escaping his lips when his joints audibly cracked. Keith was never more aware of his father's age. 

Keith flicked his eyes away, pushing down on the increasing urge to punch the wall next to him in his chest. "If it's money you're worried about, then I can get another job. Old Pete's looking for another bus boy; I saw the flyer in the window the other day. Or I can start mowing lawns again, charge more for my service than last time." 

Keith's dad looked at him with a sad smile. "Keith. It's winter." 

"Then I'll apply to Old Pete's. Anything. I don't care what it is." 

His father ran his hand down his weathered face, and Keith caught the gold of his father's ring on his finger. Keith had never seen his father take it off, even though Keith's mother had left when he was still an infant. The thought only made Keith's dread all the worse. 

"Look. I appreciate the thought, but you know that that's a bad idea." 

"No! If money's the problem, then I'll do it. Just let me do this." Keith hated that his eyes watered. 

His father must have seen the water start to collect in his son's eyes, and with a last, sympathetic pat on the shoulder, he turned back to his chair, settling down into it with a slight _creak_. "You need to keep your grades up if you're going to get that scholarship to the Garrison. You know that. I already don't like that you have _one_ job; I'm not allowing two." 

"I can handle it." 

"I know you _think_ you can, but it isn't worth it. Trust me, juggling two jobs and trying to maintain a 4.0 isn't smooth sailing." 

Keith snapped; his fist painfully tingled when it connected with the beige, kitchen wall. His father didn't say anything. "Fine. What are we going to do then!?" 

A silence fell over them, and Keith couldn't handle it. He vaguely wondered if, one day, when his time came up, would he appear gray to himself? He wondered if his father would be as panicked as Keith was if the situation was reversed. Would Keith care? Would he believe him? He wished he knew the answer. 

"Everyday I take a risk, Keith. It's part of my job." His father spoke slowly, as if to himself, and Keith couldn't find it in himself to look at him, so he opted for the table instead. "Everyday, there's a chance that I won't come back home; that a burning building will cave in on itself and take me with it. I've always known that, and I have always been adamant that I make sure you were aware of that, too. I never sugar-coated it, and that won't change." He paused to clear his throat, and took a sip of the now cold coffee next to him. "But I will promise you this: I will fight as hard as I possibly can to make it home tonight, and the next night, and the next. As long as you're here, I will always fight to come home." 

Keith turned away, furiously swiping at a traitorous tear that escaped. "Promise?" His voice cracked. 

"Promise." 

True to his word, Keith's dad did come home that night, and the next night, and the next. He kept fighting until he didn't, and Keith didn't cry at the funeral. 

He'd already been accepted, full ride, to the Garrison by that time, and when Keith had gotten there, he was able to add another truth to follow-up on his first two: 

As much as he may want to, or as much as he may try to intervene, once somebody has turned gray, there was no way to change, or prevent that person's death.

And then he met Lance.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I'm back. Hopefully you read it. If you did, you can probably tell that this first part was a preview type of chapter; I tried to give a bit of a backdrop to this Keith's life story, and help settle in the overall plot and mood of the story.  
> In other words, I tried.  
> If you read this first chapter, thank you so much! You've no idea how much I appreciate it. Also, I would love to read any comments, critiques, criticisms, anything, so feel free to lay it on me down below.  
> With that, I'm going to log out now. Stay tuned for next time (I promise it will get more interesting soon)!  
> Laters,  
> \---BluellaBlair


End file.
